


How To Outfox A Millionaire

by norvina



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, DDLG, Daddy Kink, F/M, I’m bored, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvina/pseuds/norvina
Summary: Clarke Griffin didn’t know what she was getting herself into when she signed up to be a nude model for a fellow struggling artist. And she never thought she would gain the attention of a millionaire.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 76
Kudos: 365





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently read asroarke’s ‘Sugar’ and fell 👏 in 👏 love 👏 so I decided to explore the DDLG dynamic in this piece. If you’re not a fan of the kink, then this probably isn’t for you. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Truly, the money was too good to turn down and she  _ obviously  _ didn’t expect this to happen. 

Clarke’s been interning at Polis Momentum, a posh art gallery, since August. It’s unpaid and she’s constantly overwhelmed, but she likes her job. Sometimes it’s the only good thing about her life. Especially when she gets to meet extraordinary local artists. 

But, it’s  _ unpaid  _ so she does whatever she can to make money. Not in a sleazy way, of course. Despite taking a full load this semester, she also has two other jobs so when Lincoln Woods essentially offered her a month’s rent (which isn’t much seeing as she as two roommates) to pose nude for a few pieces in his upcoming showcase, she couldn’t resist.

Plus, it’s not like it’s porn.

It’s art. 

And Lincoln isn’t some drooling creep. He’s genuine about his artistic process and never once made her feel uncomfortable or objectified. It’s not about sex. Really, the final images were quite innocent in nature.

He even let her retain the rights to the portraits as a favor. Clarke would allow him to showcase them, but Lincoln isn’t allowed to sell the works without her permission. The last thing she needs is her _tasteful,_ virginal nudes hanging in some perv’s sex dungeon. 

Things were going fine, too. Clarke got her participation in the showcase pre-approved by her supervisor, Anya, who said it was a rite of passage for any young artist. Her colleagues only made jokes during the hanging process, but they never had any heat behind them. And her mother RSVP’d  _ no  _ to the event. All in all, it was  _ fine.  _

Until a week after the opening when some overpaid, and clearly deranged, art collector for some rich asshole decided her boss  _ had  _ to have Clarke’s paintings. Immediately. Lincoln initially declined on her behalf, because, well, that was the deal, and anyway, the portraits are scheduled to be shown in Seattle, Phoenix, and Austin during his debut tour. 

But then the collector, some woman named Diana Sydney,  _ insisted  _ that he reconsider and flashed an obscene amount of cash as encouragement. 

Did she mention she has  _ two other jobs _ ? 

Obviously, she’s tempted. After Lincoln’s tour, they’re just going to be put into storage purgatory. It’s not like she’s going to hang them above her non-existent fireplace and gawk at her exposed backside every night. And textbooks are outrageously expensive.

Regardless, she’s not going to just let this random stranger have them. Not without due diligence, at least. It would be morally irresponsible if she didn’t do some recon. 

So, that’s why she’s sitting in the lobby of Blake House right now. 

Clarke picks at her gray corduroy skirt as she waits. Vaguely, she wonders if she looks childish in her environment. Apparently this guy is some hotshot mogul that collects businesses like candy when he’s not harassing starving artists, and she’s wearing a skirt that goes above the knee, stockings and a white chiffon blouse with bell sleeves. And Jesus Christ, her hair is up in trendy space buns.  _ Pathetic.  _

Truthfully, her look is supposed to accent Lincoln’s displayed works at Polis Momentum. His whole theme is the classic dichotomy between good and evil; purity and debasement; love and lust. For instance, her nudes would be considered provocative in today’s society but the way she’s posed is modest. His other works do the opposite.

Hell, Anya’s been wearing leather all week, opting to fall head over six inch heels for debasement. 

She steals a glance at the reception desk, eyeing a pretty woman wearing a simple black Calvin Kline dress. Clarke thinks her mother owns the same one. The thought digs at something she’s been trying to avoid for months now. 

Clarke sighs, thinking,  _ what the fuck am I doing here? _

Really, the meeting was meant for Lincoln but he’s too busy working on his next project right now to care. He said he trusts Clarke’s judgment even though they barely know each other. If she wants to sell, then sell. If she doesn’t, then no harm done.

She just wants to know  _ why  _ this man is so adamant about buying her paintings. Clarke’s not special. Not at all. And there are hundreds of valuable paintings featuring naked blondes on the market. 

“Mr. Blake will see you now,” Clarke’s head shoots up as she makes eye contact with the now standing receptionist. She doesn’t belong in the sick, suffocating world of corporate America. 

Clarke exhales and stands. Her hands nervously smooth out her skirt as she follows the woman down a short hallway that leads to ceiling length double-doors. 

She rolls her eyes, finding them to be dramatic. 

The receptionist gives her a polite smile as she opens the doors and Clarke takes a deep breath. 

“I can find similar piec—“ Diana Sydney stops speaking when Clarke enters the room. She immediately looks disappointed with her presence.  _ Stupid outfit,  _ Clarke thinks dumbly. Diana straightens, “I’m sorry, we were expecting Mr. Woods, not a Polis, er, _intern_.”

_ Fuck.  _ Did Lincoln not tell her?

Clarke awkwardly shifts on her suede lace-up wedges, eyes trained on her feet, “Uh, yeah, well...I’m the owner of the portraits.”

When she looks up, she meets a pair of warm brown eyes that are regarding her closely. Mr. Blake. He’s younger than she thought he would be, maybe mid-thirties. And he’s  _ hot.  _

Like stupid hot.

Diana clears her throat, “I don’t follow.” 

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, “I have the rights.” 

The woman blinks. 

“Because they’re mine. I’m, uh, the model.” Her eyebrows furrow because damn, this is awkward. Why didn’t Lincoln give them the details?  _ Fucking artists.  _ She’ll never be able to tamper down the violent blush on her cheeks. 

“Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Well, that’s certainly unconventional...“ Diana looks over her shoulder at her boss, waiting for his input. Mr. Blake looks positively pained. Maybe he thinks this is a big waste of time because she’s not Lincoln. Maybe he’s a sexist that doesn’t like working with women—actually, that doesn’t make any sense. Clarke’s losing it. “Mr. Woods said there were concerns. What might those be?”

She doesn’t mean to be rude but she snorts, “You’re kidding, right?”

Diana  _ tsks  _ with disapproval. Clarke fights the urge to walk out. She didn’t come here to be disrespected. She came here because working at the gallery, tutoring people in biology, and slaving at the free clinic just to scrape by sucks. The idea of a little reprieve is an alluring fantasy but she’s not going to sell her portraits to people that won’t _value_ the art.

Not that people like Diana Sydney or Mr. Blake could ever understand Lincoln’s vision. Diana’s wearing $400 heels and Clarke’s pretty sure he’s donning a Prada suit that does  _ everything  _ for his figure.  It’s hard to observe the glory of good and evil when you’re a fine-tuned representation of it. 

Her anxiety about even being in this stupid building finally bubbles over. She hates people with money because she grew up around it. Fundraisers, parties, corruption, the works. She knows the lifestyle too well. At least, she did until her father died. Clarke got out and she’s making something of herself. 

Diana fixes her with a look of contempt and she decides she’s had enough of the games. Clarke clears her throat, “Actually, I think you just answered my main question. I’m not interested in selling. Have a good day.” 

“Excuse me?” Diana is clearly appalled by Clarke’s flippant behavior. She casts a pleading look towards her boss. Mr. Blake’s composure is slipping and there’s a visible tightness in his jaw.  _ Oh, he’s pissed.  _ Diana stutters as Clarke turns her back on the situation, “M-Miss, Miss—I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

She tosses over her shoulder, “Clarke Griffin.”

Clarke exits the double-doors and practically sprints down the hallway. It takes a moment for Diana to follow her and by then, Clarke’s zooming past reception and repeatedly pressing the call button for the elevator. 

“Miss Griffin!” 

She freezes at the sound of his low voice. Clarke throws a desperate look towards the receptionist, who is decidedly  _ not  _ on her side. Mr. Blake comes into view and he hardly looks like he was chasing after her. 

For some reason, it makes her feel giddy. Her eyes widen in excitement as she turns to face him.

He stops a good distance away, holding up the palms of his hands to placate her like she’s some wild animal. “Please, come back to my office and we can discuss your paintings.” 

The elevator dings. The doors open. 

Clarke nervously giggles as she walks backwards into the luxurious elevator, eyes daring him to do something, “You’d have to catch me first, Mr. Blake.” 

The last thing she sees before the doors shut is his completely intoxicating grin. 

_ Holy fuck.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so in case it wasn’t obvious, I might have daddy issues. Sue me. 
> 
> (Actually, please god don’t because I’ve got student loan debt).
> 
> ♥️♥️♥️

He doesn’t really understand art. Bellamy has tried repeatedly to grasp the subject, especially when it became a point of interest for his little sister, but it’s always been out of his wheelhouse. The way he sees it, sometimes a blue dot is just a blue dot and not a representation of the depravity of the human psyche. 

Regardless, he collects particular pieces that show investment potential in case the market crashes or he loses everything overnight. Call it an irrational fear. 

Truthfully, he didn’t want to attend Lincoln Woods’ debut showcase because it didn’t hold any genuine monetary value to him. Woods is a new artist with hipster ideals that translate well to a younger audience. And holy hell, his paintings are _overpriced._

Octavia wanted to go, though, and with his hectic schedule he rarely sees her these days. Well, that, and the fact that she says he suffocates her. Of course, that’s only a valid point when she doesn’t need him to drop a pretty penny on something. 

Somehow, while tossing back cheap flutes of cristal to drown out the fact that his sister was shamelessly flirting with the hack, he stumbled upon the most alluring portraits he’s ever seen. _Real art._

A young girl, probably a decade younger than him, stood bare and beautiful. There was something in the way she looked over her shoulder—just something in her big blue eyes that appealed to him.

There wasn’t much of her on display. _Thank God._ Mainly the delicate globes of her ass, but fuck, did he feel _dirty_ glaring at them. It made him irrationally angry with Woods. She looked too pure, like the perfect good girl. The perfect representation of every lewd fantasy he’s had since college. And this dimwit, John-Milton wannabe had the audacity to exploit her to the world. 

Bellamy considered the men around him and their greedy eyes. All of them inhaling the sin emulated in the room—the gallery employees wearing leather, the burgundy lighting, the portraits of women with their heads thrown back in ecstasy and haunting, desolate landscapes. 

Panic filled him. 

All he wanted to do was protect the girl in the portraits. 

Diana Sydney was entirely disinterested in pursuing the pieces when he casually requested them. Woods isn’t _that great_ so it shouldn’t have been a fucking problem. Bellamy tried to be patient, and normally that’s a non-issue for him, but he wanted those goddamn paintings off the wall before someone got the wrong idea. ASAP seemed like an understatement. 

He was willing to stroke a ridiculous check for Mr. Woods during their meeting, but then something he can only define as a miracle happened. 

Clarke Griffin walked into his office. 

The second he saw her wide baby blue eyes and that pretty little skirt, he was half-hard. Bellamy couldn’t even speak, highly concerned that his voice would betray his thoughts about her calling him daddy while begging for his cock. But within minutes, Diana had _his_ baby bolting for the door. 

Bellamy sat dumbfounded at his desk for half a minute before he unceremoniously fired Diana Sydney, and did something he’s never done before. 

Chased a woman. And he _loved_ it. 

He’s been thinking about her cheeky grin since yesterday as well as her perfect little dare. 

_“You’d have to catch me first, Mr. Blake.”_

Bellamy hasn’t been able to get any work done. He’s supposed to be discussing a friend’s new pharmaceutical venture but he’s floundering. Quite frankly, it’s not his style.

Unfortunately, he picks the wrong time to zone back into the conversation. 

“—and then I told her, no sweetie, I’m not going to let you peg me. But then she gave me that damn smile and the next thing I knew—“

Bellamy rapidly blinks, “Wait, what?” 

John Murphy flashes him a wicked grin, realizing that he finally has Bellamy’s attention again. Murphy leans back in his chair like a trained professional, most likely a habit he picked up from court-ordered anger management, and waits for an explanation.

“Something on your mind, Blake?” Even though this is supposed to be a business meeting, Murphy has his suit jacket slung over the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “The next Flappy Bird? Solar panels? Another reason my girlfriend won’t shut the fuck up about you?” 

Bellamy gives him a lighthearted arrogant grin, “That’s because Emori has taste.”

“Debatable,” Murphy rolls his eyes, “I’m not going to waste any more of our time talking about _estritecan_.”

He really should be listening to Murphy’s pitch. Estritecan could save lives on the diabetes front and it’s a lot cheaper than alternatives. If properly produced and marketed, they could do things that matter and combat competition. 

Bellamy adjusts his posture, trying to appear like he’s interested, “No, no, sorry, we need to talk about projections and development.”

Murphy snorts as he stands and grabs his jacket from the chair, “Or, you can go handle whatever you’re daydreaming about and we can reschedule. I know better than to get in the way of greatness.” 

He’s got a lot of proposals and boilerplates to get through but the temptation is too great. He has to catch her, just like she sweetly teased. 

Bellamy waits an appropriate amount of time after Murphy’s departure to gather his things so he doesn’t look desperate. The man probably stopped to harass his assistant, Harper, before leaving. Despite his profound patience, Harper still gives him an odd once over as he exits and calls the elevator. 

Something tells him Harper knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He _may_ be a workaholic and that’s fine. 

Bellamy’s accomplished a great deal since he graduated college. He started as a business consultant and now he owns seven multi-million dollar companies and has stakes in other promising ventures. He makes no apologies for the sacrifices he’s made in his personal life to be successful. 

“Mr. Blake,” Harper greets him like he wasn’t her husband’s groomsman mere months ago, “Do you want me to call Miller?”

Nathan Miller is the head of his security and at times, his driver. He rarely trusts other people to get him where he needs to be. 

Bellamy shoots Harper a warm smile, “Yeah, tell him we’re going to Polis Momentum and find the quickest route.” Usually he asks for the most environmentally friendly route but now that he’s decided to go to the gallery, he doesn’t want to wait. 

Harper quirks an eyebrow but seems pleased, “I thought the paintings weren’t for sale.”

As he gets in the elevator, he says, “Believe it or not, I’m a great negotiator.” _Fuck the paintings if I can have Clarke._

The drive to Polis is pleasant but tainted by his obvious impatience. Miller talks about a new guy that he’s seeing but Bellamy doesn’t even retain the most basic information. Miller doesn’t seem too put off by his odd behavior, partly because he’s seen worse. 

For example, his screaming matches with Octavia. And his horrific breakup with his long term girlfriend, Echo, after he confessed his true nature. 

“You might just want to wait here,” Bellamy instructs as he fixes his cuff links. He can’t place the last time he felt this anxious. And there’s a horrible possibility that she’s not even working. What if this whim doesn’t pan out?

_I’ll just come back tomorrow. And the next day._

Miller nods, “You got it.”

Bellamy steps out of the Model X, buttoning his suit. A part of him is worried that he’s overstepping but he knows the importance of leaning into a risk. That _is_ how he made his name in the first place. 

Plus, she _dared_ him to play her game. 

Polis Momentum’s windows are tinted black to encourage people to come inside or whatever. He thinks it’s a stupid idea considering he can’t tell if she’s working or not. Would she even be at the front desk? Is he going to have to ask for her? 

Bellamy opens the door and there’s no one at reception. He rolls his eyes. _Fucking artists._ An acoustic cover of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” spills from the speakers. He doesn’t remember there being music last time but there was a healthy crowd. Either way, the song is unsettling when paired with the post-apocalyptic landscapes hung in the lobby. 

His eyes rake over the dark, dreary works that remind him of loneliness, sex and pain. The pieces take on an entirely different meaning when it’s just him and he doesn’t have the reassurance of a high-energy crowd. Just him, alone with his fucked-upness. Sadly, Mr. Woods seems to be a kindred spirit. 

_My sister is definitely not dating this creep._

Bellamy’s breath involuntarily hitches when Miss Griffin rounds the corner. Her eyes are glued to a tablet as she gracefully twirls towards the reception desk in an ankle-length baby blue tulle skirt and a tight mid-drift cream sweater. God, she looks like a princess. 

Luckily her skirt is high-waisted or she would be showing off her pretty skin to the whole building. Maybe the black windows aren’t a bad idea. 

Clarke delicately mouths the lyrics, “Oh daddy dear, you know you're still number one/ But girls, they wanna have fun…” as she leans her hip against the desk and finishes whatever task she’s working on. 

_Lord have mercy._

Bellamy watches her, a little starstruck by her utter perfection. Her style is _cute_ and definitely not good for his libido if he wants to conduct himself like a gentleman. 

It takes her a moment to realize that she’s not alone but when she does notice him, she lets out a breathy gasp. 

Clarke skips the pleasantries, stuttering, “W-what are you doing here?”

“Admiring the art,” Bellamy teases but really he’s only interested in the pink blush coloring her ivory skin. It’s so lovely. She’s so lovely. 

Clarke primly huffs. 

His smile only widens at her obvious brattiness. He can’t help but think about bending her over his knee. Making her tell him exactly what she did wrong. Oh, she’d do it so well. He knows it. 

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, Blake._

Bellamy offers her a weak excuse that she definitely sees through, “It was crowded last time I was here.”

Clarke looks like she’s about to say something desirably sassy but then a woman in a leather jumpsuit comes into view. Her eyes widen, a hint of fear in them, and Bellamy concludes that the woman is Clarke’s boss. 

_This place is fucking weird._

She changes her entire approach in front of her boss, cutely saying, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Blake. Would you like a tour?” _Oh, you can be so sweet when you want to be, baby._

“Absolutely.”

Clarke waits for him to close the distance between them. She holds her tablet to her chest, shifting her weight on her ballet flats. Her teeth trap her bottom lip as she regards him. He’s quite sure she’s checking him out.

She meets his eyes, realizing she’s been caught and instantly looks down at her feet. Her blush deepens wonderfully. 

“Right this way, Mr. Blake.”

Clarke leads him to another series of landscapes, a newfound smirk on her lips. She knows what paintings he wants to see but he tries to appear interested in the landscapes to humor her. 

It’s the same terror, just in a different format. Almost disregarded, there’s a painting of what he would describe as the Garden of Eden at the bottom. He hates that.

Bellamy furrows his brows.

Clarke hums as she observes him, “You’re not impressed.” 

There’s a wonder in her eyes that he can’t comprehend when she turns back to Mr. Wood’s paintings. Bellamy gives her his full attention. She probably doesn’t even know how beautiful she is under the glow of the gallery lights. 

“Tell me what you see,” Bellamy prompts, putting his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t touch her. 

The corners of her lips turn upward and he can tell this is something she’s passionate about. Clarke asks, “Honestly?”

As an intern, her opinion is probably rarely valued. He softly encourages her to take advantage of the platform he’s offering, “Of course, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke sucks in a deep breath, averting her eyes once again. He thinks it’s cute that she’s nervous but he can’t tell if she’s nervous because of him or because she doesn’t like social situations. She didn’t have a problem telling Diana Sydney what was on her mind. 

“Okay, well, there’s obviously dark and light in the world. I think you walk in here and choose what you want to see. You can buy into the seduction and sin of it all because that’s what you’re programmed to do or you can face towards the light,” Clarke shrugs as if her assessment is meaningless but he’s hanging onto every word that she’s saying. Art’s never been so fascinating before. “I think Lincoln is posing a question and he’s asking people to look inside themselves to find the answer. Most people’s responses are superficial. They feed into the majority.”

But not Clarke. No, she’s light. She doesn’t care what the majority is doing. He waits a moment before he confirms his suspicions, “And you’ve chosen light?”

Clarke giggles, “Well, if you come back tomorrow I might be dressed like my supervisor.” _Ah, the woman in leather._ She leans in closer like she’s confessing a secret, “Maybe I’m bad like everyone else.”

“No, you’re a _very_ good girl.” _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Her eyelashes flutter and she murmurs, “You think I’m a good girl?” 

_Kill. Me._

Clarke meets his eyes, opening her mouth and closing it a few times like she has another question she’s not sure how to ask. Normally, he would push her to speak her mind but she’s not exactly his and he’s afraid she might never be. 

The things he wants...he’s accepted them as part of his personality but he knows they’re not simple asks. Clarke might think he’s some sick fuck once he tells her _and he plans to tell her._ How could he not? He wants to take care of her in every way possible. 

Bellamy shows her mercy, “Will you show me my paintings?”

Her sass returns instantly at the mention of her portraits, “ _Your_ paintings, Mr. Blake?”

The things he wants to do to the smart mouth…

He corrects, “Bellamy.”

Although that’s not the name he wants her to use. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke tastes his name with a gleam in her eyes. He thinks that she’s flirting with him but he can’t be sure. She spins around and starts walking towards another segment of the gallery. He follows closely, fighting the urge to place his hand on the small of her back where a sliver of her skin is exposed. 

Her face reddens when they stand in front of the nude portraits, but he’s not looking at them. He’s not interested in what they’re showing. She’s not even aware that his attention is solely on her. 

Clarke bites her lip as she looks at the other sensual portraits, and then roughly exhales, “Okay, why do you want them?” 

“No one should see you like this,” Bellamy responds easily. It’s the truth. She’s too damn precious to be on this wall. 

She challenges, “Except you?” 

“Well—“

Clarke holds up a hand but he sees her knuckles whiten around the tablet. There’s a nervous laugh on her lips, “Don’t answer that. I’m not sure I could take it.”

He cocks his head to the side, “Mm, are you sure?”

She returns her attention to her feet and he notices a tendril of golden hair has come loose from her tight bun. He wants to put his fingers under her chin so she has to meet his eyes but he refrains. He doesn’t want to scare his princess away so soon. 

Bellamy makes a move before he chickens, “Do you want to go to dinner with me tonight?”

“Oh, um…” Clarke presses the tablet to her chest, still avoiding eye contact. Her blush is at full force and she’s stumbling over a response, “Actually, I—“

_You’re an idiot, Blake. A girl like this doesn’t want you._

He straightens his posture, realizing he’s misread all her cues, “I’ve overstepped.”

“No, _no._ I work tonight. I would love to go to dinner with you,” Clarke says and then she’s giggling again. His heart speeds up and he wonders if 33 is too young to have a heart attack. Bellamy’s pretty sure the gallery closes in a few hours. He’s about to tell her that he’d wait for her when she continues, “I work at a clinic near campus. Uh, I’m a double-major so—and the clinic actually pays and the hours aren’t so bad and oh my god, I’m rambling. Sorry.”

Bellamy tucks her stray hairs behind her ear, overcome with a sense of relief and _happiness._ She would _love_ to go to dinner with him. His voice is low when he asks, “When are you free?”

The sound of heels in the distance startles Clarke away from his touch. He chuckles softly at her innocent demeanor. He doubts the leather-clad woman would be too concerned about some light flirting. 

“I’d have to look at my schedule,” Clarke daintily whispers, looking over his shoulder at her boss. 

Bellamy pulls out his wallet and finds his personal business card with his cell phone on it. “Will you call me when you’re free, Miss Griffin?”

_Please, call._

Her eyes widen as she accepts his card, tucking it in front of the tablet. Bellamy takes a step back, knowing it’s time to say goodbye. 

A pout forms on her lips when she realizes what he’s doing and he almost dies, “Are you leaving?” 

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Bellamy imitates her whisper and returns his hands to his pockets, “Your boss looks like she spanks.”

“I don’t mind,” Clarke says and then quickly realizes her error, “I mean—“ 

Bellamy smirks, pleased with the image that comes to mind. 

She rolls her eyes, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Bellamy holds up his hands, laughing, “Oh, no judgment, Miss Griffin. We all have our kinks.”

He expects her to avert her eyes again but it seems he’s said something that amazes her. Bellamy fights the urge to swallow because _fuck_ she’s already got him wrapped around her finger. 

“Oh, yeah, and what are yours, _Bellamy_?”

For a second, he thinks she’s got him all figured out. He’s kept it well hidden for years and she’s unraveled him in less than an hour. He’s so unbelievably screwed. 

“Hmm, you’re a curious thing, aren’t you?” Bellamy somehow plays it cool, but only god knows how. He adds, if only to pique her interest, “Maybe I’ll tell you if you behave for me.”

Clarke unexpectedly _whines_ and it takes everything in him not to push her against a wall and shove his hand up her skirt. Does she even know how tempting she is to him? Can she tell?

Fearing he won’t be able to control his urges for much longer, he leans forward and plants a kiss on her cheek. Clarke sharply inhales when he rasps, “I look forward to your call. Goodbye, Miss Griffin.”

He doesn’t wait for her to walk him out to the lobby area. Bellamy needs a cold shower and apparently some self-control. _Fuck._

As he’s walking away, he hears her call, “Goodbye, Mr. Blake, er, Bellamy.” 

_So. Fucking. Sweet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, so I decided to continue after all the support I received!! Comment below what you thought of this chapter. I want to have both POVs. 
> 
> Next chapter is going to be Clarke’s POV and I PROMISE smut is coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! While this isn’t a smut chapter (that’s Chapter 4, promise), it was fun to write and lays a foundation for the future. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Okay, Clarke’s nervous. 

In her defense, she  _ wasn’t  _ anxious about going to dinner with Mr. Blake until her overprotective, borderline insane roommate googled him. Raven spent half an hour rambling off his accomplishments while Clarke put on a full face of makeup. He’s rich, powerful, and impossibly alluring. Jesus Christ, he’s way out of her league. 

Luna came home while Clarke was dressing and gave her a  _ free  _ psych evaluation, effectively diagnosing her with severe daddy issues. Which, duh, that’s been established for awhile now, but she’s not thirsting after Bellamy because of his age. There’s just something about him that pulls her in.

They’ve texted a handful of times since she called him to discuss her availability for dinner Tuesday night. Every time his name flashes on her screen, a shot of dopamine rushes through her system and a goofy smile forms on her lips. Clarke’s never liked someone this intensely and she knows when he ultimately decides she’s damaged goods, it’s going to sting. 

People like him don’t like fucked up people like her. Not long-term. 

Her phone dings and her breath catches. Clarke’s irrationally worried that he’s going to cancel their date even though he’s planned the whole thing. She pauses in her tracks so she can read the incoming message.

**Mom:** _ Don’t forget to tell your friends tomorrow is BLACK TIE.  _

Another ding. 

**Mom:** _ Looking forward to seeing you. We need to catch up.  _

The last thing she wants to think about is the fundraiser her mother is forcing her to attend for appearances. 

Clarke sighs and checks the time. If she doesn’t put some pep in her step, she’s going to be late. She tends to walk so she can save money. A perk of city life. Fortunately, the French restaurant that Bellamy chose is close to Arkadia University and somewhere she’s been before. 

Her outfit is  _ cute  _ in a vintage chic way, but obviously not designer. Her white lace bohemian dress is supposed to be reminiscent of the 70s, but that tidbit of information is irrelevant to the crowd she’s about to subject herself to tonight. 

Clarke steps into  La Grenouille and freezes. It hasn’t changed since the last time she was here over four years ago. Her eyebrows furrow involuntarily as she recalls all the times her mother complained about the woes of being an educated socialite and how her father hung onto her every word at the table by the frosted window. 

She didn’t expect to be so sentimental. 

Clarke tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear as she approaches a well-dressed host.  The man gives her a critical once over and then forces a fake customer service smile. He doesn’t even ask a question, just waits for Clarke to admit that she’s not supposed to be here. Her voice betrays the awkward feeling spiraling in her stomach. 

“Hi, uh, I’m supposed to be meeting someone here.”

The host can’t conceal his amusement, “And who might that be?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes because the situation is so stereotypical. She doesn’t rise to the man’s bait, politely replying, “Bellamy Blake.”

The man straightens and his cheeks color, “Apologies. Right this way, Miss Griffin.”

_Oh._

She follows the host past a series of tables, avoiding dirty looks from the other patrons. They’re all dressed like respectable business people, but that comes with the time and day of the week. Her mind teases,  _ you don’t belong here.  _

Clarke can’t help but gasp when the host leads her out the back doors to a private stone patio. A small garden conceals the space from the alley. The whole atmosphere is lush and lively—a far cry from La Grenouille’s stuffy interior. She’s confident this option isn’t advertised to the public. 

Bellamy must have dropped a good bit of money on tonight.  _ So unnecessary.  _

Her heart stutters when her eyes land on him. Bellamy’s sitting at a small glass table set for two. His face is illuminated by the strings of lights hanging above their heads. He’s distracted by something on his phone. The host clears his throat, gaining Bellamy’s full attention. He grins when he sees Clarke, immediately disregarding his cell. 

Bellamy stands to welcome her and her mouth dries at the sight. He’s wearing a well-fitted black suit and a dark teal shirt that she wants to run her hands against. Clarke’s willing to bet it’s luxuriously soft. He’s not wearing a tie, which she assumes is his way of setting a casual tone. 

Clarke takes a few steps towards him on shaky legs. She knows she’s smiling like a fool. He leans in close to greet her, sort of a one armed hug, and she can smell his cologne. Tom Ford, if she’s not mistaken. Bellamy presses a chaste kiss against her cheek, whispering, “You’re beautiful” for just them to hear. 

_ Fuck, I’m screwed.  _

She shyly returns his compliment, “So are you.”

He laughs under his breath then makes a move to pull out her chair. Bellamy dismisses the host with a nod. Clarke thinks,  _ good riddance  _ as she watches the man leave. Bellamy holds her hand so she doesn’t lose her balance as she sits. 

Another unnecessary gesture but it makes her  _ happy.  _

Clarke sets her phone and clutch purse down next to her menu while he settles back in his seat and beams at her, “I ordered wine. Hope that’s alright.”

Clarke’s relieved. She definitely needs some liquid courage if she’s going to act like a functional human being, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” 

The way Bellamy looks at her doesn’t make her feel out of place. He’s not judging her outfit, or picking apart her posture. There’s an obvious want in his eyes that she can’t fully comprehend and it makes her dizzy with desire. Only a few minutes in and he’s already wiggled himself under her skin. 

After a moment of heated silence, he asks, “How was your day?”

_ What? _

She had a 9 a.m. Organic Chem lab, then she completed some studio hours for her art major. Clarke was distracted with the idea of seeing Bellamy again so she didn’t produce anything of significance. After she finally surrendered, she picked up two tutoring sessions and then went to her internship. It was an uneventful day. Clarke doesn’t want to bore Bellamy with the specifics, so she simply says, “Busy.”

Bellamy’s eyes are fixated on her. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt like someone was truly listening to her every word, but it’s nice, “Did you work at the gallery?”

Clarke hums, “For a few hours.”

“Do you like working for Polis?” Bellamy leans back in his chair and waits for her to answer. He’s genuinely curious about her internship. 

His interest makes her oddly uncomfortable, but not because it’s strange or unprompted. She loves working for Polis Momentum. Clarke spent most of her time as an undergraduate daydreaming about working in a gallery, but her mother thinks it’s a waste of time. Most people are unsupportive of her actual dreams. 

Clarke struggles to sound positive about the ordeal but talking about it just makes her sad, “Yeah. I mean, yes. Definitely. In a lot of ways, it’s my dream internship.” 

Bellamy frowns, picking up on her dejected tone, “Is that what you want to do after you graduate?”

“I’m actually going to med school,” Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, then concedes, “Well, if I get in.” 

The idea of being rejected brings her a sick thrill. 

Bellamy raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Med school?”

Their waiter comes outside with a bottle of white wine. Clarke inaudibly sighs in relief. She doesn’t want to explain that she’s being forced into med school because her mother controls her college fund. Having an undeserved free ride makes her feel guilty but she would financially drown without it. Abby made it very clear that she wasn’t going to support Clarke’s childish fantasies, though. 

If Clarke isn’t going to abide by her mother’s strict societal expectations, then she has to academically appease Abby so she can get out from under her thumb in the near future.

All she wants is to be treated like a human being and one day she’ll get there. 

“You can leave the bottle,” Bellamy instructs the waiter after the wine is uncorked. She wonders if he’s always in control. Clarke stares down at her small hands, deep in thought. She’s trying really hard not to be amazed by his every move but it’s difficult when he’s unlike any person she's ever met before. 

Bellamy pours her a glass with a steady hand and she bites her lip. If she doesn’t get her anxiety under control, she’s going to draw blood. Maybe alcohol will loosen her up. She takes a quick sip. Of course it’s delicious. Way better than the bottle of Cupcake Prosecco that she’s been nursing with her friends. 

Worried that he’ll continue his line of questioning, Clarke inquires, “How was your day?”

His response is quick, “Long. I’m sure you can guess why. Thank you for asking.”

She takes another sip of her wine, still averting her eyes. His words ring in her head. His day was long because he wanted to see her. He wants  _ her. _ How in the fuck did she get here and how is he even single?

Clarke suddenly remembers their brief discussion about kinks. Over the last few days, the topic has surfaced in her mind. She wants to know his secrets and if they’re the reason he’s unmarried. He could have his pick of trust fund babies, but instead he’s on a date with a girl that modeled nude for cash. 

“What do you do in your spare time?”

_ Ugh, small talk.  _

“Draw, study, hang out with my roommates,” Clarke lists off her hobbies without much consideration as her curiosity about his lifestyle peaks. She wants to know everything about him. He’s the interesting one here.

Raven informed her that he wasn’t born into money. He built his empire from the ground up. Meaning he’s intelligent and savvy. He knows the value of hard work and sacrifice. 

She glances up at him, allowing her eyes to unsubtly trace over his features. His skin is perfect, and even the light freckles smattering his cheeks are beautiful. His smile is kind and encouraging. His brown eyes are endearing but seductive. 

There’s no logical reason for them to be sitting at this table together. 

Bellamy’s composure is nerve-wracking as he continues to ask her meaningless questions, “How many roommates do you have?”

“Only two. Raven and Luna.”

“Well, that’s—“ 

Clarke can’t take it anymore. She speaks before she fully thinks it through, “I thought you were going to tell me about your kinks or have you lured me here under false pretenses?” 

He huffs, amused, “Not a fan of small talk?”

She shrugs nonchalantly but then Bellamy cocks his head to the side. Instinctively, she knows what he wants before he has to ask. Clarke obliges with a smirk, “No, I’m not a fan of small talk.” 

Bellamy opens his mouth to say something but then the waiter returns, asking for their orders. Clarke doesn’t have to look at the menu when she orders the  _ La Poularde au Champagne _ . Her familiarity with the menu takes Bellamy by surprise, or maybe it’s her excellent French pronunciation. 

Bellamy orders a lobster dish with a coconut curry. He barely butchers the lengthy French title. When the waiter finally leaves, she looks at Bellamy expectantly. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Clarke took a sexology course two semesters ago with Luna. It was based off society’s fascination with  _ Fifty Shades of Grey _ and how sex is represented in the media but the adjunct professor teaching the course was heavy into the lifestyle. The entire class got a thorough education on how to openly talk about sex, desires, and the predominant types of kinks. Clarke and Luna both got As.

She’s thrilled to finally put her knowledge to use. Clarke can’t keep the excitement out of her voice, “Caning? Feet? Asphyxiation?”

“No, but now I certainly have some more questions about your past times,” Bellamy laughs but there’s a rigidness in his posture that wasn’t there moments ago. The last thing she wants is for him to be uncomfortable. 

Clarke explains her fascination, “I took a course with my roommate about human sexuality. Luna’s a psych major and I needed a humanities credit. It was fascinating.”

He takes a long sip of his wine before commenting, “You’re full of surprises.” 

“Good or bad surprises?”

“Always good, Miss Griffin,” Bellamy takes another sip of his wine, then fixes her with a dark look. Clarke’s insides melt, “Now, do you know anything about power exchange?”

_ Holy fuck.  _

She swallows hard, “The textbook definition.”

“I like being in charge. Correction, I love being in charge.” Bellamy’s confession doesn’t surprise her. Logically, she’s observed his passion for control already. Only someone used to getting their way tries to buy paintings that aren’t for sale. 

Clarke nibbles on her lip again, “So, you’re a Dominant?”

Her fascination turns into something more. 

“Oh, you’re very astute,” Bellamy’s praise runs down her spine like water from a hot shower. She knows her cheeks are red as hell. He continues, “I prefer a different title, though. I get off on the caregiver dynamic. Do you know of it?”

There are people that like taking care of others, and not purely in a sexual capacity. Unconditional love, even manufactured, is a beautiful sentiment. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t interested. It’s the reason Luna tells her that she has daddy issues all the time. 

She squirms in her seat, “Vaguely.”

“I want to serve as a protector, a confidant, and like I said, a caregiver. And while I do believe in punishments for misbehavior, I’m not a sadist. I don’t get off on inflicting pain,” Bellamy explains calmly but she can see the anxious shake in his leg under the table. 

Clarke considers everything that he’s said. He’s skirting around the truth and she can’t help but smile. Even now, he’s trying to protect her. Bellamy finishes off his wine as silence overtakes conversation, pouring another glass. He takes another big sip. 

A wide grin forms on her lips as she tests her theory, “Daddy.”

Bellamy nearly chokes, “Jesus Christ, Clarke.”

His reaction makes her toes curl. She likes chipping away at his composure. Her voice is like honey when she asks, “That’s what you like being called, right? That’s your role?”

Bellamy clears his throat, “Yes.”

_ I affect him.  _

Clarke’s eyes light up. A thousand questions sit on her tongue, “Lifestyle or just in bed?”

“Lifestyle.”

“Is that the only type of relationship you’re interested in?” Clarke asks, but not out of concern for herself or their future. She wonders if this is why he’s not with someone else. She hates the idea of him getting his heart broken because of the things that he wants. 

He’s probably very good at being a daddy. 

Shame.

“I’ve tried concealing my needs in the past and it’s never worked out in my favor,” Bellamy shrugs it off like it doesn’t bother him but she knows better. Clarke knows how lonely life can be when you’re not like everyone else. 

She looks down at her hands again, not feeling as brave as her next question leaves her lips, “So, you want to take care of me?”  _ Please. _

“Yes, I do. Very much.” Bellamy answers quietly. There’s wonder in his voice. 

Her heart is doing somersaults. This isn’t something she can definitively say she’s into because she’s never tried her hand but she’d be lying if she said it didn’t make her blood run hot. Clarke wants someone to care about her. She wants to feel loved and safe. 

She can’t think of anything purer than to be cared for by a partner in that capacity. Just the mere idea warms her. A hundred little fantasies flutter through her mind.

Yes, she wants him, too. Very much. 

But she needs to know if they’re compatible. Just because they share an interest doesn’t mean they’re meant for each other. 

“What are you thinking?” Bellamy’s voice is strained. 

Clarke tries to ease his mind, “That I’m glad you asked me to dinner.”

“You’re not planning your escape?”

She shakes her head, “No.”

Bellamy noticeably relaxes, his lips turning up. Before he can respond, their waiter brings their food. Clarke licks her lips at the sight of her meal. Roasted chicken with a mushroom sauce. It looks exactly how she remembered. God, she hopes it tastes the same. 

The waiter leaves speedily and Clarke wonders if Bellamy paid extra for the staff’s quick exits. 

She waits for him to take a bite of his lobster medallions before she digs in. She doesn’t want to seem too thrilled but she’s starving. Clarke just realized she hasn’t eaten all day—one of her worst habits.

“And what about you?” Bellamy asks, not bothering to hide his laugh at her obvious appreciation for their meal. 

Clarke hums because her mouth is full. 

Bellamy smirks as he takes another bite, “Caning, feet, asphyxiation?” 

Clarke puts a hand over her mouth as she swallows, “Well, I only have basic experience, but I’m not opposed to experimentation.”

“Meaning?”

She looks down at her plate as she explains, “I’ve only been with one person. Uh, my ex-girlfriend. We didn’t date long.”

Clarke and Lexa dated for a month her Sophomore year of college. The sex was good minus all the fumbling but the relationship ended before things went further than the basics. They didn’t even bring toys into play. Still, she doesn’t consider herself a virgin just because her hymen is intact. What they had was real. 

Bellamy doesn’t ask the questions most guys ask about her bisexuality and she’s grateful. Instead, he gets hung up on her body count, “Only one person?”

Clarke regrettably admits, “I tend to work a lot. I’m not very good at the whole relationship thing.” According to Lexa, she’s emotionally distant and her priorities suck, but that’s an old argument. From what she’s heard, Lexa is much happier with some woman named Costia. 

Their breakup was for the best. 

Bellamy frowns at her self-assessment, “I find that hard to believe. You communicate so well.”

“Only because I feel safe,” Clarke goes back to eating, blushing at her remark. There’s no reason she should feel safe in the presence of a virtual stranger but she does. 

“With me?”

Clarke nods, shoving her fork in her mouth. She’s definitely going to google a copycat recipe for this meal later so she can recreate it one night. Bellamy doesn’t ask her any more questions until she’s completely finished with her food. 

Clarke empties her wine glass and then meets his adoring gaze. He smiles at her, “Would you be interested in trying things my way?”

“I have a lot of questions.”

Bellamy nods, “And I’d love to answer them.”

She knows the responsible thing to do is lay everything out on the table and set boundaries and limits. But she doesn’t want to waste her time. Clarke has a pet peeve about wasted time. She needs to know if they’re sexually compatible.

Of course, that could just be the wine talking at this point. Clarke wants to feel his skin against hers. She wants to inhale his cologne. Her thighs clench under the table just thinking about getting close to him.It’s been so long since she’s known intimacy. 

Clarke shyly suggests her desire, “But I think—well, I think it might be better if you demonstrate. Show me how things would be.”

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair and exhales, “Are you sure?”

Clarke nods enthusiastically, “Yes, absolutely.”

He reaches across the table and takes her hand in his own, tangling their fingers together. Clarke forgets how to breathe for a moment. He asks, “Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

“Yes.”

He smirks, “Yes, what?”

Clarke whispers just in case someone comes outside, “Yes,  _ daddy _ .”

Bellamy brings her knuckles to his mouth and he kisses each one, humming, “How does that make you feel?”

“Excited. Nervous.”

He pulls out his phone and types out a quick message, then returns his attention back to her, “Why are you nervous?”

“It’s been awhile. I don’t want to disappoint.”

Bellamy kisses her hand again and she feels dizzy with joy, “I’ll take good care of you and if you don’t like it, we can stop.”

“Okay.”

The waiter comes in and Bellamy hands him an obscene amount of cash, “Keep the change. Let’s go.”

She giggles as he helps her stand up. Clarke almost forgets to grab her clutch and phone in the rush. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk through the restaurant. The patrons stare at her for an entirely different reason now. 

Envy.

Bellamy takes her to a black Tesla SUV. The car turns on in his presence, but she’s not aware that he’s not the one controlling it until they climb into the backseat. He introduces her, “Uh, Miller, this is Clarke. Clarke, this is Miller.”

Clarke smiles at his driver, “Hi.”

Miller must not have been expecting Bellamy to bring her because he stammers through his greeting, “Hi, nice to meet you, Clarke.”

“We’re going to the apartment,” Bellamy says and then pulls her closer to him until their thighs are pressed together. His arm drapes over her shoulder and she leans her head against him.

She likes how easy it is to be with him. 

Clarke looks at her phone. She’s got another text from her mom that’s nothing but question marks. She swipes out of it. She’ll call her tomorrow. 

She opens up her roommate group chat to let them know that she’s not coming home tonight. Within seconds, Raven is sending a row of eggplant emojis. Clarke locks her phone. 

Her phone starts rapid-fire dinging.

**Raven:** _ Practice safe sex.  _

**Luna:** _ Embrace yourself. _

**Raven:** _ Just gagged. Don’t embrace yourself. You’ve been embracing yourself. Embrace Bellamy. _

**Luna:** _ It’s an expression. Let your inner freak run free.  _

**Raven:** _ Lay off the bong. _

**Luna:** _ ;) _

**Raven:** _ I want to know if he has a big dick. For science.  _

**Luna:** _ Same. For science.  _

Clarke quickly types back,  _ You’re both weird. I’m putting this on DND.  _ She locks her phone and sighs contentedly.

Tonight is going to be perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback always appreciated and adored. What was your favorite part of this chapter?


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